


If You Are In Need

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She hasn't seen him in over a year. She doesn't know where he is. Sometimes she finds a letter in her mailbox, no return address, no name. Just a note inside, handwritten and unmistakable. It's always a red envelope. She tears up every time. Now, after years of running and working and endless escapes and finally safety, she can't remember a time when she hasn't loved him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Doubt I Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came to me out of nowhere. Thanks to all of you for leaving kudos and comments on my previous works- hope you enjoy this one as well!

She's thinking about him again.

She's alone and it's early December and New York is a niveous mess and she  _can't fucking stop thinking about him._ No matter what she does, no matter where she is, somehow her mind always takes her back to him. There's always a connection.

It's all over now. She's not a criminal anymore. Hasn't been for quite some time.

But he's gone, too. And she still doesn't know how to deal with  _that_.

* * *

The list, the Cabal, all that is in the past, dismantled and uncovered, her name cleared, just like his. It had all happened so quickly she still needed time to process everything, the transformation from a fugitive to a celebrated agent. The team had offered her to return to the task force, or maybe another division, or maybe another agency, but she had been ready to move on and she had always loved New York. So she had closed that chapter, had left the FBI behind because law enforcement without the assistance of a wanted criminal had suddenly lost all appeal.  _There's just no fun in it unless you're there_ _._ And she was certain now that he wouldn't return.

Her Park Slope apartment is cozy, though more expensive than she could usually afford, but thanks to Cooper and her FBI pension she doesn't have to worry about it. It's peaceful here, and there's a bakery right around the corner that serves a sinful selection of pastries, so really, there's not much to complain. She's thinking about getting another dog because sometimes the apartment is just a tad too quiet and the park nearby is convenient. Her life is average now, lacks excitement, and she likes it that way. She's still dealing with the aftermath of her escape, has been to a therapist a few times, but has troubles explaining just what exactly is going on with her. She's not depressed and she gets enough sleep and yet something is missing since her return and she wonders if that something has a fondness for three-piece suits and fedoras.

After she had moved to New York he had called her a few times, checking in, making sure she was safe and happy, nothing more. Safe, yes, she finally had been, she still is, but happy, well, that's a whole other discussion. She has friends here, people she trusts and can rely on, and she's been out on a few dates but hasn't been in a relationship since Tom. There's always something that bothers her, something she just can't accept and ignore, and so there have been dinners and a few kisses, but nothing more. She makes a conscious effort to find flaws in her partners, tries to justify why it never feels quite right.

It's because they're not  _him,_ she thinks. But she can never admit it out loud.

She might know him better than anyone else, or at least she used to, got to know his habits, what he likes for breakfasts, what he wears to bed, how he sleeps on his side and never on his back, how he prefers his coffee, his favorite wine, what he looks like in jeans. Sometimes she allows herself to reminisce, allows herself to  _really_  miss him, miss him the way she had missed him when their life on the run had come to an end. The constant comfort of his presence, the scent of his cologne lingering in the halls.

Once, only once, she has kissed him. They had both been sharing stories over dinner, had spent the remainder of the evening seated next to each other on the couch, relaxed and as content as the circumstances had allowed, two glasses of wine on the table.

Later she had blamed it on the alcohol, the way she had rambled on about relationships out of nowhere, her struggles and insecurities, how she had always thought she wasn't good enough for whatever her partner had demanded. And Red had listened to every word, intently and patiently, until he had finally moved closer, his hand on her knee.

"Close your eyes."

And then, as she had complied, he had kissed her. Sweetly, skillfully, had deepened the kiss when she had finally responded. Had stopped it before there was no going back.

She still remembers the cadence of his voice, sincere, a hint of desire, slightly strained.

"Never question your abilities, Lizzie. You are-"

The way he paused to catch his breath.

"Magnificent."

He had never mentioned it again. Neither had she. But she replays the memory in her head often. Every detail safely locked away.

* * *

For all the challenges they had faced, for all the dangers and close calls, the moment of their separation had been quite unspectacular. The two of them in the middle of a deserted airfield in Nova Scotia, facing each other, and Red's jet behind them.

"Are you sure you won't be coming back to DC?"

"Yes, Lizzie."

"So this is goodbye?"

"Not forever."

But he hadn't looked at her and she hadn't been able to grasp the idea of a life without him.

So she had stepped closer, had tentatively put her arms around him, had hoped for something, just  _something_  that would make this bearable. And then he had hugged her back, no space between them, had pressed his lips against her hair, had left a whisper there.

And that was that.

Ten minutes later she had found herself on a plane to Washington, tears no longer hidden, his words slowly but confidently breaking her.

_Never doubt I love._

And now she hasn't seen him in over a year. She doesn't know where he is. Sometimes she finds a letter in her mailbox, no return address, no name. Just a note inside, a different quote, mostly poetry, handwritten and unmistakable. It's always a red envelope. She tears up every time.

Now, after years of running and working and endless escapes and finally safety, she can't remember a time when she hasn't loved him.

* * *

It's Sunday night and the cold and relentless East Coast winter has finally arrived in the city but she's home, has been all day, too tired to face the outside world. There's a kettle heating up on the stove, there'll be tea tonight, not wine, and she doesn't like to drink by herself anyway because it makes her feel lonely. So Earl Grey it is and there won't be a headache in the morning.

She walks over to the couch with a mug in one hand, a novel in the other,  _Great Expectations_ , and makes herself comfortable. She's working her way through the classics now because she has never gotten a chance to and because she hadn't been able to truly appreciate them when she was younger, but now, now she enjoys them tremendously; they calm her and distract her. Challenge her. The light is dimmed and the blanket is soft and she tries to remember where she left off, skips a few pages and makes a mental note to finally buy herself a bookmark, and then there's a knock on the door.

She doesn't expect anyone, which is made quite obvious by her attire, and she sighs somewhat irritated but gets up anyway, quickly checks herself in the mirror next to the coat rack- she's a mess but Sunday night visitors really shouldn't be expecting much else- turns the handle and can't believe her eyes.

"Hello, Lizzie."

She must be dreaming.

"May I come in?"


	2. Here, With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos- here's chapter 2! Enjoy!

She's staring at him in disbelief, frozen, unsure what to do next.

She wants to punch him, she wants to scream at him, she wants to tell him how much she's missed him, that there were nights when she couldn't forget his face, when she didn't know how to fall asleep without one of his ridiculous stories, and how dare he leave her alone like this, how could he, and doesn't he know, doesn't he understand, she's not strong enough, she wants to...

She wants to touch him. Wants confirmation that this is real.

And so her hand reaches out on its own accord, searches for his heartbeat and finds it, the steady rhythm, strong but elevated, he must be nervous and it's all too much, and his expression is so gentle and warm, just like she has memorized it, and then she steps closer and pulls him towards her, holds on to him like she's done before, moments before she had to watch him leave.

And he can't breathe. Because he has anticipated every possible scenario, has braced himself for her scorn, for her hatred, for a closed door, but never this. And she's so beautiful and feels like home. She  _still_  feels like home.

_Red_ , she whispers, and it's merely a breath of air on his neck, soft and sweet, but it pulls him from his thoughts and he realizes that he hasn't moved, that he hasn't responded, and so his arms finally tighten around her and he closes his eyes, focuses on the details, the scent of her hair, the solid pressure of her palm against his back, her fingertips, all of it. He can't remember how he ever managed to let her go.

He takes his time, withdraws from her embrace slowly, simply to get a better look at her, cups her cheek and tenderly moves his thumb back and forth along her temple, says her name over and over again and she only now realizes how much she has missed the sound of it. There are so many stories he wants to tell her, excuses and apologies, but they can wait and things have changed, he can sense it, the way she's looking at him as if he'll vanish again in the blink of an eye, as if she can't bear the thought of it.

"Come in, please," she finally tells him and only then does he notice he hasn't even crossed the threshold yet. Somewhat hesitantly he steps forward and into the apartment and she closes the door behind him, offers to take his coat and hat and he hands them to her, a faint smile on his lips, silently thanking her. He looks as good as she's ever seen him, the elegant three-piece suit, impeccable and familiar, and she feels self-conscious suddenly, the lack of make-up, her hair tied together in a messy bun. She knows he doesn't mind, he never has, but she feels unprepared and this is surreal and she doesn't quite know how to proceed.

"I made tea. Would you like some?" A simple enough question and she has to start somewhere. He's standing in the middle of her living room as if he belongs there, hands in his pockets, his eyes wandering over picture frames and bookshelves, until he finally turns around and nods.

"Tea sounds wonderful, thank you."

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right there." It's too casual and this is a million things but certainly not that, and yet there's no protocol she can follow and she's trying so hard not to fall apart. She hasn't seen him in over a year and now he's in her home, now she's serving him tea and  _how on earth_  is she supposed to deal with that?

She walks over and hands him the mug, sits down next to him, a substantial gap between them because she doesn't trust herself and if she starts touching him again she might not be able to stop.

"It's good to see you, Red." It's an understatement, of course, but this is not the time for declarations. She can't allow herself to be as happy as she wants to be. She's afraid she'll drown in it, the relief, the joy, the gratitude, and she doesn't want to appear weak and desperate in front of him, no matter how prevalent these emotions are, no matter how many times she's endured them in the past months. She's become skilled at coping, at accepting his absence, and she doesn't know how long this will last. Maybe he'll leave again tomorrow. Or even tonight. Maybe she won't see him again for another year. Perhaps longer. She wonders if she could make him stay by admitting her feelings. She wonders if it would be fair, if that one fateful whisper still rings true. She's kept all of his letters and he never got a response from her.

"It's good to see you too, Lizzie." It's restorative, cathartic, overwhelming, and  _good_ , yes, he supposes that works as well. There were times when all of this would have seemed utterly absurd, a life beyond the FBI and his list, two old friends spending time together on a snowy Sunday night, or something of the kind. The apartment reflects her interests and passions beautifully, he thinks, it's comfortable, inviting, charming, and the tea calms him, though he wouldn't mind something stronger either. There's a pause, a silence that isn't awkward but far from relaxed, and he can't seem to find the right words, he just wants to take her in for a moment. He knows this must appear strange to her, the way he showed up on her doorstep without any kind of warning, but he wanted to surprise her, wanted to catch her off guard for the mere sake of watching her reaction. He wanted something truthful, something genuine. Something to encourage him to go on with his proposition. Ask what he came here to ask.

"So what brings you to New York?" There's an avalanche of questions waiting to be released, all of them lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't want to push him away. She wants to savor this, his presence, his warmth.

"I'm not here on business, if that's what you're wondering. I'm here for more personal reasons. A vacation, if you will."

"So you're telling me the Concierge of Crime is on vacation in New York and just felt like stopping by?" She doesn't know what to make of any of this and her tone is too irritated, she doesn't mean it, she just doesn't quite understand.

"Not exactly."

"Well? What are your plans then?"

"I was wondering if I could stay."

"You mean in New York?"

"I mean here, with you." His voice lacks confidence suddenly and his eyes shy away from her, focus on the cup in his hands before he continues, his gaze kind and hopeful. "I'd like to stay here with you, Lizzie. If you'll let me."

"Red, I'm not sure this is up to your standards. Why would you want to stay at my apartment when you could stay in a suite at the Plaza?"

He turns then so he can look at her,  _really_  look at her, and he wants to reach out so badly but thinks better of it, there'll be time for that, too, he hopes. Time is all he has to offer now.

"Because I want to explain the reasons for my prolonged absence. Because I want to know how you've been, what plans you have, if you have finally become a morning person." His smile is affectionate and almost painfully endearing. Honest. "Because I have missed you, Lizzie. Because I have missed you terribly."


	3. Of Course You Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

She doesn't quite know what to say.

She doesn't quite know how to process this, either.

Something inside her just burst open, this is everything she's longed for and how could she ignore that, the mere chance of having him near, she wants to pull him to her and cling to him and make him understand what he has just offered her, hope and happiness and  _him_ , overwhelming as it may be, and how could she possibly say no to that?

It's the easiest decision she's ever had to make.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes."

"You'll let me stay?"

She averts her gaze, she seems shy and somewhat insecure, and he thinks it's all too charming.

"I have a guest room you can use, with a small adjacent bathroom. It's nothing special but it's comfortable and there are books in there, too, if you can't sleep I mean, and I'm assuming you've brought clothes because I can't really help you in that department, and I'm not sure if your habits have changed drastically in the past year but-" She stops herself. She's rambling and he's observing her with an amused expression, lips slightly upturned, every part of him savoring the nervous movements of her hands.

She breathes deeply, meets his eyes.

"Yes, Red. I'd love for you to stay."

* * *

She refills their cups while he goes downstairs to retrieve his bag from the car, rearranges the pillows, fixes her hair.

When he returns a few minutes later, he puts his luggage in the guest room and once again joins her on the couch, sits closer this time, something she notices but doesn't comment on, and the conversation moves along effortlessly now. Two old friends sharing stories, curious about the life of the other, yet Red tells her he'd much rather talk about her, and she's fine with that. She wants to be fully rested when he tells her of his travels and absence.

"How have you been, Lizzie? How is life away from the FBI treating you?"

"It's treating me quite well. I'm still getting used to it, but New York is good for me. There's so much to do here, you know, and the city never stops. No matter what happens, it kinda drags you along."

He raises his eyebrows, his gaze inquiring, waiting for her to elaborate.

"I mean even on bad days, the city kinda forces you to get back up again. And somehow that's given me strength. My life has changed so much since that day we said goodbye on the airfield and it hasn't always been easy." She wants to explain but doesn't know where to start and he doesn't demand details, not yet. That'll come later. He wants to help her. He's going to help her. Make things better for her.

"And you have people here you like? Friends you spend time with?"

"I do, yes. I prefer spending time alone these days, but I have a group of people whose company I enjoy a great deal."

"I'm glad. I wouldn't want you to feel lonely."

_I don't feel lonely anymore_ , she wants to tell him, but the words linger on the tip of her tongue and eventually vanish.

"I have to admit Red, this is all a bit strange. I'm not fully sure yet if I'm merely imagining this, if I won't find you gone in the morning with no sign that you were ever here at all. I'm not even sure if the tea didn't trigger some intricate hallucinations."

"You can pinch me if you want to."

"No, thats fine, Red. I just…I just hadn't expected to see you so soon. It was a surprise, to put it mildly."

"A good or bad one?"

"A good one. A very, very good one." She pauses briefly. "I really should have been prepared for this, you know."

"And why is that?"

"Because it's your style, showing up out of the blue. It's what you do, Red."

"Pardon?"

"After the Anslo Garrick ordeal, for instance. Remember how you just walked into my house unannounced, as if nothing had happened? As if you hadn't been gone for weeks? We sat across from each other, we had wine later, we talked."

He can't believe she remembers. He had always been fond of that particular memory, had thought of it often during these past months, how happy she had been to see him, her expression not all that different from the way she was looking at him now, full of kindness and expectations, something sweet, how she had offered him a drink then and how they had discussed her case, his jacket discarded, her husband gone.

Things have changed so remarkably between them.

"So, did you bring me anything?" Her smile is bright and challenging and the most wonderful thing he has ever seen and of course he remembers this part, too, but there are no new blacklisters this time and what a relief that is.

"Well, me being here first of all."

She rolls her eyes at him dramatically and he wishes he could kiss her because he might just drown in the sheer adoration he feels for her.

"I am so relieved your humility hasn't suffered at all in the past year." He laughs at that and she's glad she's still capable of getting such a reaction out of him, it's all in good fun and his laughter has always been one of her favorite sounds, his real, genuine laughter, not the facade he puts on when social gatherings require it. Not many people would be able to tell the difference, but she always knows.

They've been through so much. Together. Apart.

"After the fight with Tom, that was another occasion. Do you remember that as well, Red? You told me something new was about to begin. You told me I deserved the best in life." She sounds wistful now, almost melancholy. He studies her profile, how she lowers her head.

"You still do, Lizzie. Of course you do." He reaches for her hand then, caresses her palm with his thumb.

_And it will come._

This is a beginning, too.

They sit in silence for a few moments, slowly coming to terms with what this new situation, this new  _thing_ , might have in store for the two of them. He notices her breathing slow down, she's clearly trying to fight off sleep for his sake, but there's no need. He's not going anywhere.

"Lizzie, you should get some rest" he tells her calmly and she turns to him apologetically as he rises and pulls her to her feet. She stands and faces him, scolding herself for the fact that she's exhausted while he seems perfectly awake, and leads him to the guest room.

"If there's anything you need, just knock on my door. There are additional towels in the little cabinet under the sink, and I just changed the bedding yesterday, too." He nods in approval. "I'm sorry for cutting our evening short."

"Don't apologize, Lizzie. We'll have plenty of time to talk."

"Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning then?" she asks, too tired to conceal the excitement in her voice.

"Yes." He leans in closer, places a gentle kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, Lizzie. This means more to me than you could know."

She watches him move towards his room and close the door behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

He is wrong, of course.

She understands perfectly well how much this means to him.

Because she feels the exact same way.


	4. Are You Happy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Enjoy!

There is screaming.

There is harrowing screaming and he wakes up abruptly and tries to remember where he is.

It's her, it's  _her_ , and then he understands, gets up as quickly as he can, fights the surging dizziness as he hurries towards her room and opens the door without knocking because this is not a singular incident, no, they've done this before, he knows what this is, the sheer agony of her nightmares, but he would have expected, would have hoped that this was a thing of the past by now and he can't bear the thought that she has been suffering through these attacks all by herself. She's drenched in sweat, her movements wild and her eyes closed, and he steps closer carefully and sits down next to her, puts his hands on her shoulder, says her name softly,  _Lizzie_ , then stronger,  _Lizzie wake up_ , and suddenly it stops. In the darkness of her bedroom all he hears and feels is her frantic breathing and her tight grasp on his arm, fingers trembling, seeking safety, and it comes naturally, the way he pulls her up and holds her against him, tightly, securely, yes, this is familiar and his voice is soothing.

"It's okay, Lizzie. I'm here. You're okay."

He's calmed her before, many times in fact while they were on the run together, and it doesn't get easier, it's still as painful as the first time, but he knows what to do now, knows what to say. How to approach her and comfort her with his presence. He considers it a privilege that she would let him get this close, even now after his absence, especially now, and he readjusts his position to lighten the strain on his back and lies down next to her while he feels her grip loosen, while her breathing evens out. He hopes he can keep her nightmares at bay for now.

He doesn't sleep another second.

* * *

She finds him in her kitchen.

The table is all set, there's coffee and french toast and an array of fresh fruit and he, well, he looks surprisingly rested given the events of the night and his smile is welcoming, if a tad concerned.

"Lizzie, perfect timing."

She's still dressed in her pajamas and approaches the table somewhat hesitantly, tries to come to terms with the fact that he's making her breakfast, that he really did stay, that she didn't just imagine his unannounced appearance, his warmth.

He sits down across from her, fills her cup and watches her contently. He wants to re-familiarize himself with her habits, her morning persona, and he's doing his best not to observe her too intently, invade her privacy too much, but he can't quite make himself stop either. He's been longing to just look at her for so long that he's having difficulties not to stare. Her nightmares worry him, though he will keep that topic to himself for now, all in good time and he can't rush this, he has to do this right, for her sake and for his. Hasty excuses won't do. But she still needs him and there's gratification in that, too.

"So where have you been in the past year, Red?" she asks curiously to fill the silence. She's never been the patient type and while she doesn't want to appear ungrateful her doubts are still dominating her thoughts. It all seems too easy, too  _good_ , and she's not accustomed to it anymore, his undivided attention, she doesn't know how to trust it, how to accept it, and she can't let herself become more attached than she already is. He will leave again. And that was the poignant reality of it.

"Oh Lizzie, this is hardly the right setting for that conversation."

He hasn't changed at all, she thinks.

"What do you propose then? What setting do you prefer, Red?"

"Have dinner with me, Lizzie."

"Where?"

"Here. Let's have dinner here. I'll cook."

"And will you explain then? Will you tell me?"

"Yes, Lizzie. Yes. Tonight."

* * *

Their day is spent apart.

Liz needs to run some long overdue errands and Red needs to sort out some final business matters but he's told her to be back around seven and that she doesn't have to worry about a thing. When she gives him a key to her apartment there's an ache soaring inside of him he can't quite shake. She doesn't yet know that he's fully intent on staying. This time, if she asks him to, if she wants him to, he'll remain by her side.

Her kitchen is surprisingly well-equipped, he notes. He can't remember ever seeing her cook, not during any of their trips at least, but he's always had a certain passion for it, even talent. He prepares the ingredients diligently, chops and seasons and sears, he could get used to this, waiting for her to come home, the sweet anticipation.

A few minutes past seven he hears the door unlock and he opens a bottle of wine before welcoming her, tells her to get comfortable, freshen up if need be, and have a seat whenever she's ready. It's almost too much for her to process, his casual demeanor, the beautifully arranged table, his attention to detail, the delicious smell and him, impeccably dressed as he is, completely out of place in her humble surroundings yet blending in effortlessly.

The steak is cooked to perfection and the wine an elegant companion and their dinner conversation is friendly, almost noncommittal. She tells him about her life in New York, nothing too personal, omits any specifics of her struggles that pertain so closely to him, and he recaptures entertaining episodes of his travels, makes her laugh without explaining why he came back, bides his time.

As he pours himself another glass his gaze wanders over their empty plates, over her hands fumbling unconsciously with the corners of her cloth napkin, up to her eyes that lock with his. She feels it, the sudden shift, and braces herself for whatever is coming, all her defenses up and running. He's been quiet for too long.

"Are you happy, Lizzie?"

She doesn't know what to do with that, wonders how to phrase her response without revealing too much.

"I'm doing alright."

No, that won't do.

"But are you happy?" he inquires, not prying but offering, and she doesn't really have a choice but to tell him the truth. It's what she expects from him, too.

"No Red, I haven't been happy in a long time."

"And your nightmares? Would you like to tell me about them?"

No. No, she doesn't want to tell him about them. Because they  _are_  about him. Always, every night.

"I'd rather not," and her tone is irritated now but he tries again.

"Lizzie."

That's all it takes. Her name on his lips, soft and fragile and longing. She can't bear it and something shatters.

"No Red, listen. I've been fine, okay? Not great, not happy, but fine. I'm coping. But it was you who disappeared. It was you who left me here, after all we had been through. And we spent so much time together and for so long you were the only constant in my life, the only presence I could rely on, could open up to, and then you were gone. When I moved to New York I thought I would finally be happy again. Things were looking up. But do you know what happened instead, Red? I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. I felt devoid of passion, of any kind of incentive, of motivation. There was this emptiness inside of me that just kept on growing. And I wondered, you know, I wondered what it was because I couldn't put my finger on it. And then I realized it was  _you_. That I was missing you. That I was waiting for you to come back. But you didn't. And I know it's ridiculous, I know you don't owe me a damn thing. You've saved my life so many times, you helped me clear my name, and what else could I possibly want, right? And now you're here and you make me breakfast and dinner and I thought I could do this, Red, I thought I knew how to do this. But I don't. I can't."

She pauses and sighs, her shoulders are slumped now and defeat is written all over her body. As she gets up she looks at him in a way that causes him to stop breathing.

"I'm scared, Red. I'm so, so scared of what is going to happen to me if you leave again. Because you will." A final plea. "I don't want to feel empty again."

He watches her walk away towards her bedroom and then there's silence. He remains seated for a few minutes, eventually rises to clean up the table, washes the dishes, puts everything back where it belongs.

He waits for as long as he can manage before he knocks on her door.

"Lizzie?"

There's no response but he enters anyway because he can't possibly hold out until morning to let her know.

The lamp on her nightstand is still on, filling the room with just enough light to illuminate her features, the graceful lines underneath the covers. Her eyes are open, expectant. Sad.

He stands before her and when he speaks his voice is calm and determined.

"I spent the last year trying to distance myself from the things I had created. My business, my network. I've been working hard to shift responsibilities, secure my assets in a legal manner, retreat step by step."

He hesitates for a moment, mulling over the right words.

"You see, Lizzie, there is one thing you are very wrong about. I do owe you. Through all of my travels, my ventures and endeavors, you've been my guiding light. My way out of the darkness. You're the one true good thing in my life. The truth is I wanted to come back when I knew I would be able to stay, and I am sorry it's taken me this long. But you're the reason for all of it, Lizzie, and I'm here because I needed to tell you something."

"What did you need to tell me, Red?"

"That what I said to you back on the airfield remains the truth."

His sigh is deep and wistful and full of heartbreak.

"That I love you, Lizzie."


	5. Can I Stay Here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading! Enjoy!

There's no response because he doesn't give her a chance to utter one.

He retreats, her name still sweet on his tongue, and shuts the door behind him and it's cowardly, yes, certainly, but he hadn't been able to make sense of her expression and the possibility of rejection and the desperation that comes with it, no, that's something he just couldn't bear at this time of night. Maybe in the morning. He might have to leave in the morning.

But still…

She had missed him. She had been waiting for him. And now the truth is out and maybe she'll forgive him one last time.

He wants to kiss her again.

He hopes he'll get a chance to tell her that, too.

* * *

The room is pitch black.

She treads lightly as she approaches his bed, her bare feet silent on the wooden tiles, her heart beating loudly. Her eyes take their time adjusting to the dark and she thinks he must be asleep, it's his calm breathing that gives him away. He must have been exhausted because she can only remember a handful of times she has actually seen him like this, unconscious, resting, completely still. It's not the sleeping part that surprises her, it's that he doesn't seem to be dreaming. That's the Raymond Reddington she is familiar with. Fidgeting, flinching, even screaming. Haunted by his own demons. She had comforted him just as much as he had comforted her. A life on the run didn't allow for vanity. And she had always slept better with him next to her.

Carefully she lifts up the duvet and crawls in underneath it, the distance between their bodies substantial given the size of the bed, and she doesn't want to wake him either. She wants to take him in, wants to look at him slowly and fully, wants to re-familiarize herself with his features, relaxed as they are now, the real him, the man she fell in love with. His body emanates warmth under the sheets and yes, this is safety, this is what she had longed for. This is home.

And he loves her, too.

Loves her still.

And she can't bring herself to be angry with him. Because she yearns for happiness, has been yearning for it since the day they parted, something to fill the void. Has been rereading his letters over and over, a part of him in the grasp of her hands, a remedy against her deprivation, but it wasn't enough, it couldn't have been.

And now he's here.

She watches as his eyes open slowly and it takes him a moment before he understands, before he  _sees_ , and it's shock and surprise and gratitude that peer back at her.

"Lizzie, I-"

"Don't. Please."

She moves closer then and he seems frozen, doesn't want to wake up, he'll believe this is real for as long as his mind will let him, and finally she touches him. Her palm cups his cheek and it's so beautifully soft, so full of promises and forgiveness, and her nails come into contact with the back of his scalp, find their way over his cropped hair with the perfect amount of pressure, and it's divine, the moment, the feeling,  _g_ _od_ , he's never had a dream this poignant, and he can merely examine her, a beautiful shadow in the dark, an apparition.

"I'm so sorry", he whispers, his voice rough and aching.

"I know, Red. I know." Her thumb traces his bottom lip. "I know." Gentle, almost timid.

She kisses him because she can't wait any longer.

She's exhausted, tired of hoping and waiting, positively starved, and his response is immediate, if somewhat uncertain. He probably can't believe she is doing this, either.

Their first kiss had been her most treasured memory, a talisman along the way, but this is so much more. Consolation for time spent apart, a pact for the future, the first step to their recovery. She could happily drown in it, every muffled sigh that escapes him, his lips that fit against hers so flawlessly, the last shreds of doubt that vanish with every passing second.

He pulls her to him, breathes her in, awake and present, and it's as real as it'll ever be, she is real,  _this_  is real.

"I'm not leaving, Lizzie," he vows. Another kiss, tender, lasting. He thinks nothing will ever come close to this.

She's kept him alive. She doesn't realize yet just how much the thought of her has helped him to persevere, to prevail, to let go of the darkest parts of him, but he is willing to show her, one day after the other.

_We're gonna make a great team_. The one prediction that hasn't failed him.

"Can I stay here? For the rest of the night?" and she doesn't even really know why she's asking him. She still has to get used to being wanted, having kept to herself for so long, unable to trust or demand, and even in the dark she can make out the glint of disbelief in his eyes, yet his tone is sincere and affectionate.

Small steps. Small understandings.

"What do you think, Lizzie?" He runs his fingers down her arm, makes her shiver. "If I'm not leaving, neither are you. We're quite practiced in sharing a bed, are we not?" He leans in closer, whispers suggestively in a low warm timbre.

"Personally, I have always slept better with you next to me."


	6. Are You Ready?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

He's been awake for quite some time, pondering, resting. He doesn't know how often he has replayed the events of the night in his head, an embarrassing amount, surely, but he can't stop, doesn't want to, and the mere fact that she had asked him if she could stay astonishes him, still. As if he would have ever declined her request. Not in this reality, not in this universe.

She had offered him all he ever wanted. Company. Forgiveness.  _Most of all_ _I want to sleep_ _._  She had given him that, too. And another kiss. And another.

He considers getting up to make breakfast, get dressed, take a shower.

But there's no need. It's still early.

He forgets sometimes that no one is chasing them anymore. He doesn't have to prepare an escape route while reading the morning paper. He doesn't have to turn on the news only to find his reflection staring back at him. He doesn't have to gather intel on faceless enemies.

It's over.

She is safe.

But there's still a gun in the drawer of the nightstand. Some habits won't be broken.

And he will never stop protecting her.

Her face is turned towards him, her eyes are closed. He wouldn't dare waking her, not with this newly found contentment enlacing her features. If she had ever asked him about his fantasy, well, this would have been it.

_T_ _he warmth of a woman in a cool set of sheets._

He's never been quite this happy. Happiness, it's all he wants for her after all these years, it's all he wants to offer, the circumstances being what they are, the way their lives collided, the journey they were forced to go on.

_I'm walking in a park with my husband_ _…_

They have time for discovery now, whatever there's left to learn. They can make up for the time they have lost.

He will be there when she wakes up.

He promised.

* * *

She dreams of nothing in particular and it feels like a miracle. Nightmares, that's all she had been used to, her heart racing in panic and agony, and now everything is calm.

He is staring back at her and he looks younger, she notices, well rested and like he belongs.

"Good morning," he says with a smile and kisses her. "I'll make us breakfast."

She watches as he walks out of the guest room, all confidence and bare feet, and she thinks this is quickly becoming her favorite thing.

They had always been extraordinary together.

She had come to him once in the middle of the night, restless and shaken, just another safe house, just another step towards her exoneration. Had crossed the threshold to his bedroom without fear of consequences because she knew there wouldn't have to be any.  _I can_ _'_ _t sleep_ , she had told him. And so he had nodded, had moved to the side of the bed and she had joined him then, too sleep deprived to feign shyness in his presence, too accustomed to his help to feel demanding. He had reached for her hand beneath the covers, the caressing motions of his thumb an effective lullaby, an apology for the world he had brought her into. He would always be whatever she needed him to be. On the verge of breaking, in the middle of flames and gunfire and debris it was the one certainty she could cling to. She had him. No matter what.

Maybe that's how things had eventually changed between them. Not with one seismic shift or grand declaration, but with a smile that hadn't been there before, that hadn't been as bright; with asking the other for help without experiencing the guilt that usually followed such simple tasks; with a bond that grew stronger with each passing glance between them. The comfort of watching out for one another, the comfort of caring, being cared for. With allowing herself to listen-  _when I look at you_ \- be impressed by his expertise-  _o_ _nly if you don't know the four digits_ _-_ and finally, ultimately, trusting him completely.

_My friend…_

She had known for so long.

_He wouldn't have just left…_

She had never said a word.

_Elizabeth, don't…_

She would take a bullet for him, too.

* * *

"Do you have any plans for today, Lizzie?"

She sits across from him at the small kitchen table, fresh coffee and pancakes between them, a striking image of domestic bliss, and she can't help but let herself cherish this. He makes the only pancakes in the world she enjoys. That hasn't changed, either.

She shakes her head, takes another bite.

"There is somewhere I'd like to take you," he continues. "I was hoping we could spend the day together."

His eyes give him away, a shadow of uncertainty, even now, and it's endearing, she thinks, those insecurities only she has power over.

"Sounds wonderful," she responds quickly, sweetly, and watches the doubt in his expression vanish. He gazes at her then and she feels a little too warm all of a sudden. It's not the coffee, she knows. It's something so much better.

As he rises to clear the table he moves towards her instead and pauses, smiles as she looks up at him, leans down and kisses her. It's so simple, it's so natural and instinctive, his hands on the side of her face, framing it like a piece of art, something precious, this is what life could be like, soft sounds and meaningful gestures,  _god_ , he kisses her like she might disappear from under his fingertips at any moment, like he has spent years thinking about it, every movement, every sensation.

She believes him now. She trusts him to not leave her again. Because she is convinced he never wanted to in the first place. On that airfield, those last seconds.

It had never been a choice. It had always been a sacrifice. Self-imposed punishment for his sins.

But this is how she wants him.

With his weaknesses, his shame, his guilt. His passion, his devotion, his flaws, his intelligence. His love.

All of him.

When he withdraws, he sighs. Hopeful this time, somewhat breathless.

"Oh, Lizzie."

There is no one in the world that speaks her name like he does. Like it's something holy.

He turns and walks back into the kitchen, washes the plates and dries them. She's grateful for his help, for his presence, and she'll tell him frequently, she vows to herself. Saving each other, that's what they do best. Guns drawn, knees on the cold ground, understandings in the backseat of a car that will be ignored at the next best opportunity. She can be his sin eater, too.

She returns to her bedroom, puts on warm winter clothing, boots that will conquer the relentless city snow. Wraps herself in a coat and thick wool scarf and walks back into the living room to find him already waiting for her.

There's something missing and she notices it on the armrest of her couch, grabs it swiftly and stops right in front of him. With skilled hands she puts the fedora on his head, adjusts it the way he usually does, that one particular motion she has witnessed hundreds of times, runs her fingers along the brim.

"Thank you," he says, voice full of wonder and affection. A quick kiss because he can't help himself.

"Now, are you ready?"


	7. Do You Like Jazz?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

A walk.

Something seemingly so plain, so simple, but not with him. Never with him.

It's always so much more. It's a discovery.

He tells her stories, tales from his life, from his travels, how he has missed her, revisits moments from their time on the run, them and this city against the world, two criminals, and she marvels at his attention to detail and his memories are hers too, sometimes they deviate, sometimes they blend. These streets are familiar, they know their names and secrets, had offered them shelter one way or another. She remembers the day he had accompanied her along the promenade, how casual it had seemed, the sunset behind them and _are you alright_ and a hand on her shoulder _._ A game of chess and him leaning in, sharing secrets. She had been so scared of it then, the intensity of his feelings and her own. She hadn't known how to gain strength from it, how beautiful they could be together. The constant hurt, the suspicion. The damage they could do.

She shivers suddenly, not so much from the cold but from her own recollections, the mistakes they've made. He reaches for her then, urges her to stop and she looks at him expectantly as he raises his hands to readjust her scarf and the collar of her coat, protecting her from the relentless January wind, as he cups her face, his touch gentle and so, so warm. As he kisses her.

What luxury. To have her near him.

Because he had it once, he knows it, the feeling of having her close at all times, that sweet torture and the guilt that came with it. The circumstances hadn't been ideal, of course, and maybe that's what had made it so hard for him, maybe this was why he had hated himself for it. Because it had come with a price, this divine proximity, and a terrifying one. It had come with a manhunt and constant fear and panic and danger and the end of life as she knew it. That line she had crossed, well, they had crossed a couple in those few weeks, and some had certainly taken longer to acknowledge than others, the looks, their trust, moments on a boat. But the change had been undeniable. And when it had all been over, when she had walked towards him as a free woman, all confidence and determination and gratitude, the true version of herself, the one he had fallen in love with, he had felt free as well. And scared to death of life taking her away from him again. Because how could he possibly return to an existence without her.

* * *

They walk next to each other in silence, seemingly lost in thought, savoring what they have been denied for too long. There's a weight that's been lifted now, she can feel herself breathe more easily, and the icy New York air runs through her, revitalizes, ignites. The numbness of the past months and years, the endless coping and trying, it's over now, a thing of the past with him beside her, the way he speaks her name, the way his hand lingers near the small of her back every so often. It's an intimacy that surrounds them, protects them from the world, it's a secret only known to them, something to be experienced, not explained. She couldn't explain it if she tried, whatever they have, had always have, from the day she had walked down those stairs in the post office up until now. Good things take time. Good things are worth waiting for.

They move through Chelsea towards the West Village. It's late afternoon now, they have been out all day and the sun is slowly setting and there's a melancholy she can't quite ignore. She has to remind herself that this can happen again, that he is here now with her, that they can make their own traditions. This is what life could look like. So very normal.

"This is one of my favorite spots in the city," he tells her quietly, points towards nothing in particular as they stand at the curb.

"What happened here?" she asks him, doesn't quite understand, it's all terribly inconspicuous though strangely familiar.

"My car was parked here, and you came walking towards me in your black leather jacket, opened the door swiftly and got into the passenger's seat. You were shaking, and that look in your eyes, you seemed terrified and nervous and rightly so, given how you had almost been shot. That's what you told me, how you had heard the bullet go past you." He smiles wistfully, with a hint of reverence, a spark as if he was speaking of something magical. "And then you hugged me."

She has stopped moving somewhere in the middle of his account, has become perfectly still as the traffic rushes past her, there's no noise, no commotion, just him and that story and that smile, _god_ , his smile, a mere hug, a treasure. Had she known then what it had meant. For her it had been instinctive, a natural reaction, that shift between fear of dying and complete safety. He was the only person in the world she had thought of, his image bright and clear as she had escaped, _get to him_ , she had told herself, _just get to him_ _and it will be alright_. He will make it alright. And as her steps had become faster, as she had seen the black limousine and him waiting for her, all choices had already been made. She couldn't even explain, mid-sentence and impatient, one sudden movement. The moment she had felt him breathe against her, all surprise and comfort and awe, all soft sounds and calming motions, all warmth and beating hearts, she had known with no uncertainty that they would survive this, too.

* * *

It's quiet on this particular night, peaceful even, the snow reflecting the evening city lights, a soft tranquility lingering in the narrow alleyways. He leads her across the Village, up Waverly Place on to 7th Avenue, stops in front of a bright red door and turns towards her.

"Do you like jazz, Lizzie?"

It sounds so obvious, so straightforward, this simple question, but she understands. This is him. This is all him and his life and his passions and he wants her there with him. He wants to share this part of him, wants her to see, the Vanguard, some safe haven and of course she likes jazz, and of course he knows, and of course that's not the question he's asking. It's an invitation, a request. And she nods.

"Come with me then."

She follows him down the steep staircase, anticipation rising within her as they're being seated on the right side of the stage, soft cushions, just private enough but not isolated. He waits for her to sit, takes her coat and scarf, puts it away safely and joins her. The image of them both here, it's haunted him for years. _One more night of jazz._ It's reality now, no longer a dream, no longer a delusional wish. This kind of happiness, this deep contentment, he's slowly adjusting to it. It's all new for someone like him, it's not what he has grown accustomed to. A persistent ache, yes, surely, but this lightness that comes with joy, that comes with _her_ at the Vanguard with _him_ , feels like something new entirely.

The band starts playing perfectly on time. No big names, no record deals, but they're magnificent. Their eyes are fixed on the stage, yet every now and then he leans in closer, whispers something in her ear, comments on the rhythm, the arrangement, and she wonders if she's ever felt more at peace with the world, if anything has ever felt as good as his breath tickling her neck. She enjoys watching him from the side, his profile, the way his gaze follows the musicians' movements, the way his head moves ever so slightly. He is at home here, he feels safe, and she reaches for his hand that rests near his drink, takes it and holds on to it. With determination. With reassurance.

When she leans her head against his shoulder, he fears he might wake up any second. Presses his lips against her forehead just in case. Sighs when he realizes he's not dreaming.

* * *

It's past midnight when they arrive at the apartment.

He follows her quietly, drops his hat on the living room table and stops.

"Everything alright?" she inquires softly as she takes off her scarf.

The faintest smile appears on his lips, one step, another, and then he is in front of her.

"Perfect," he responds almost inaudibly.

It's her this time who can't wait, overwhelmed with emotion and the way his voice moves through her. He closes his eyes as he guesses her intention, it's the sweetest habit, she thinks, and when she finally kisses him, it's honest and open and everything good, everything they had sacrificed, everything they had fought for, everything they deserved.

His hands in her hair and her fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons, patiently, skillfully, tugging and pulling.

A brief pause, no space between them, all hopeful eyes.

"Come on," she says. "Let's go to bed."


	8. Never Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Hope you guys still enjoy this. Thanks for reading!

It's a beautiful thing, to see him like this.

Waiting patiently for her next step, his shirt unbuttoned and his body perfectly still.

"Turn around." It's gentle, the way she says it, just encouraging enough and he is quite powerless, really. As the shirt is lifted from his shoulders, he holds his breath, not out of fear but anticipation. She has seen his scars before but this is different, a bedroom in the middle of the night, it means something now, this gesture, it means everything. And then it's her hand against his back and his skin mending underneath her fingertips and the pain gone. It's her memorizing every detail and him bowing his head, focusing and savoring and surrendering.

He lets her have this, this new experience, this reacquaintance with his real self, lets her turn him around once again, keeps his eyes open as she kisses him. There's a calmness there, a certain serenity that guides them both. Determined touches and sweet sounds and hopeful breaths and everything _just right_.

There's the familiar warmth that radiates off him, something she'll cling to through the night, the comfort of having him close.

There's the challenging glint that she's missed, daring her to trust him, to let go.

There's her name on his tongue and the want and the need.

"Don't disappear again," she whispers.

His body hovering over hers.

"I wont, Lizzie."

A final pledge.

"I won't."

* * *

He's the first to wake and grateful for it. It gives him time, grants him repose, and she's a lovely sight.

To be able to look at her, observe her, it's a blessing for his tired being, it's therapy. He wonders how often she thought about him while he was gone, if she remembered their time together like he did, vividly and frequently, their first kiss, their private moments, a game of chess, a quick embrace. How she sounded in the morning and what she looked like, her hair wonderfully messy, how her fingers would glide over his record collection, over the back of a book, the frown on her face when she had tried a sip of his whiskey for the first time. The way she would open up to him once nighttime came around, sharing secrets that would never be mentioned again, each one carefully filed away in the back of his mind. Her temper and her vulnerabilities and everything in between.

He can add to them now, collect every new discovery about her. Fill in the blanks.

Still asleep, she reaches for his arm then and holds on to it. Moves the slightest bit to be closer and closer.

He thinks he might never leave this bed.

He thinks that's perfectly fine.

* * *

"You were-"

"Charming?"

"Imposing."

"Intimidating?"

"Fascinating."

It's been hours now since she's woken up but their position hasn't changed much, both still hidden somewhere beneath the covers, their bodies turned towards each other, maintaining contact and skin against skin, reminiscing about the fateful day they were first introduced.

He almost looks proud as he listens to her version of the story, content to have left an impression on her early on, grand entrances, one of his strong suits. Those steps leading her towards him, he'll never forget it, the excitement, the hint of anxiety, the suspense while he tried to gauge her reaction. His expectations impossible and the reality of her so much better.

And yet…

He's suddenly silent, the melancholy on his features a hint too tangible.

"What's wrong, Red?"

"Did you ever regret it?"

"Regret what?"

"The way I came into your life?"

There had been certain things in her past that she wished had taken a different turn, many paths she hadn't chosen and maybe should have, it's a luxury, of course, putting a healthy distance between the past and the present. There had been moments when she had felt sorry for herself, when everything seemed just a bit too unfair, relationships that were wasted, hurt that she had caused others and that others had caused her. And yes, things between them had hardly always been perfect and yes, maybe there had been regret, for waiting this long, for saying words she hadn't meant, for forcing herself to doubt him at any given opportunity, some kind of defense mechanism she had implemented. She just hadn't been brave enough and that's human, too. But the prospect of never having met him, of never experiencing something this intense, this revitalizing, of never having someone look at her the way he did in this very moment...

"No, Red. Not for a second."

* * *

He finds them quite innocently.

It's nearing the end of another day, she's excused herself to take a shower and he's offered to make them dinner, looks for coasters to set the table, one drawer, then another, and there they are.

All the letters he's written her, properly arranged and sorted, a compilation of red envelopes. A keepsake of their history.

He had made his promises along the way, _never doubt I love_ , it's all he needed her to believe. But of course words needed to be supported by actions, turning them from empty declarations to truthful vows, and leaving her like he had, well, it had been a necessary evil, yes, but hurtful nonetheless. The letters had been a souvenir, a reminder that no matter the time or place, she was on his mind, would always be. The least he could have done, the most he could justify given his plans. A risk he could control. He couldn't have guessed just how much she missed him, the proof now so neatly displayed in front of him and _burning_ , aching somewhere deep. Reassurance cutting like a knife.

When she enters the kitchen dressed in a robe twenty minutes later, her skin practically glowing from the shower, the drawer is long closed. He stares at her somewhat awestruck, watches the faintest blush surface on her cheeks.

"Dinner is ready," he says with some effort, his voice far from casual, his tone a bit too deep. He can't tear his eyes away from her.

Before she sits, he speaks her name.

"Lizzie?"

"Yeah?"

Never again.

"Thank you for everything."

He won't make her miss him ever again.

That's a promise, too.


End file.
